


Artifice

by Saathi1013



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, First Meetings, First Time, POV Female Character, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-17
Updated: 2011-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-07 18:35:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013/pseuds/Saathi1013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft must get information on Sherlock from somewhere... and that's how Molly meets "Anthea."</p><p>(Written during Season 1; does not contradict canon, exactly)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Artifice

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, unBritpicked. You've been warned. (Though I welcome any input).

It's three in the morning, and Molly is exhausted. Sherlock has come and gone, and she's let him make off with more body parts. It's going to be hell explaining it to her supervisor in the morning. She imagines saying,  _He smiled at me and asked about my holiday._   
  
No, that won't go over well at all.   
  
And now she's up to her forearm in a fat man's stomach, searching for one last bullet fragment. She sighs and glances at the clock, hoping that it's sped up and her shift will be over.   
  
The clock remains stubbornly at quarter-past three, and there's a woman standing in the middle of the room. She's not doing anything, just standing there with her mobile in her hands, texting furiously, the rest of her still as stone.   
  
“Um,” Molly says. “Hello?” She moves to take her hand out of the man's stomach, and her pinky brushes against a jagged scrap of metal.  _There you are, you little..._  Molly fishes it out triumphantly and drops it into the metal pan at her side.    
  
“Hello,” the other woman says, glancing up for a fraction of a second before returning her attention to her mobile.   
  
“...can I help you?” Molly doesn't know what to do. She settles for stripping off her gloves and heading over to the sink.   
  
“What did Sherlock take with him tonight?” The woman asks just as Molly turns the tap on.   
  
“I'm... I'm sorry?” Molly asks. The woman's not looking at her. She wonders if she imagined the question.   
  
“Sherlock Holmes,” the woman says as if she's speaking to a child. “He left here with a small container. It had markings indicating that it came from this morgue. What was in it?”   
  
“Am I in trouble?” Molly ventures, suddenly scared out of her wits.   
  
The woman's gaze flicks up, and she spares Molly a flash of a smile. It might have been reassuring, but it's gone too fast to process. “No, I don't think so.”   
  
“Then why should I tell you anything? I don't even know your name.” Molly finishes washing her hands and turns off the tap with a vicious twist.   
  
“My employer works for the government. He has an interest in Mr. Holmes'...  _hobbies._ ” The stranger quirks another lightning-quick smile. “And you can call me, ah... Anthea.”   
  
Molly scowls. “How do I know you're telling me the truth?”   
  
Anthea types furiously for a minute, then pauses and looks at the wall significantly.   
  
The phone on the wall rings.   
  
Molly almost jumps a mile. No one ever calls this line, unless there are bodies on the way or misfiled paperwork at the central office. Certainly no one calls at half past three in the morning. She picks up the handset apprehensively. “Hello, Mortuary, Doctor Hooper speaking.”   
  
“Good morning, Doctor Hooper,” a smooth, masculine voice replies. “My assistant informs me that you're having some difficulties.”   
  
“Um,” Molly says, looking over at Anthea. Anthea is focused on her mobile again.   
  
“Let me reassure you, my interest in Sherlock is completely benign, and any information you give my assistant will be held in strictest confidence. Furthermore, I can ensure that any complications that usually arise from cooperating with Sherlock's unusual requests will no longer be an issue for you in the future.”   
  
“Oh,” Molly manages, staring straight ahead at the tiled wall.   
  
“Do not misunderstand me, Doctor. This offer is limited pending your cooperation. I only ask that you indulge my curiosity as you  _so_  often indulge Sherlock. Do we have an understanding?”   
  
“Um. Yes?” Molly manages.   
  
“Good girl. I do so appreciate your time.” And the line goes dead. She hangs up the handset and stares at the telephone for a minute.   
  
This extension isn't posted publicly anywhere. It's not even directly connected to the main telephone system; she has to navigate a complicated menu and punch in her employee code just to get an outside line. That's what decides her. “Fingers,” she says, not looking at Anthea.   
  
“What kind?”   
  
“A dozen pinky fingers from a range of ages, ethnicities, and professions; since the first of the month. He took three tonight.”   
  
“Ah. Anything else?”   
  
“Not lately.” He always returns them a week later, shriveled up like jerky. Molly decides not to mention this.   
  
“And before that, it was a liver and two four-inch square segments of scalp, correct?”   
  
“Yes.” Molly does not want to know how these people know all this. Really, she doesn't.   
  
“All right, thank you.”    
  
Molly blinks at this, looking up at the other woman. No one thanks her. Anthea smiles, pretty and bright, actually looking at her. Molly is suddenly self-conscious in her government-issue lab coat and sensible shoes. “... no problem,” she mumbles, looking away again.   
  
Anthea leaves, her red-soled heels click-clicking out of Molly's field of view.   
  
***   
  
A month later, Molly stares at her bank account balance.   
  
“This can't be right,” she mutters. She goes inside to talk to a teller. “I think there's been some mistake. Did my rent not go through?”   
  
“No, that was deposited on the fifth,” the teller replies. “Would you like to see your transaction record?”   
  
“Please,” Molly says. And she stares again at the little printed slip the teller hands her. “Oh. I seem to have gotten a raise.” That's the only explanation. She gets her pay deposited directly to her bank account, and the last two are higher than the ones before. Not by a lot, but enough that she can afford a few modest luxuries here and there. She  _has_  been considering getting a kitten...   
  
“Congratulations,” the teller says. “Do you want to open a savings account?”   
  
***   
  
She asks her supervisor about it the next time she sees him. “Did you put me in for a raise?”   
  
He frowns. “No, why?”   
  
“Um, well,” Molly hedges. “My pay went up, I didn't know if it was a merit raise, or... something.” She waves her hands around, feeling foolish. Like if she pries too hard it'll get revoked.   
  
“Not my doing. I'm not in charge of payroll, must have come down from somewhere higher up.” He shrugs and gives her a crooked smile. One of his canines is chipped; she always has to fight wincing every time she sees it. “Not that you don't do good work, Molly, but times are tough all over, yeah?”   
  
“Yeah,” she echoes, and goes back to work. “Thanks anyway.”   
  
***   
  
Anthea shows up again later that day. “Afternoon,” she says, and Molly almost drops the tray of instruments she'd been carrying.   
  
“Don't sneak up on me like that!” Molly says, breathless. “Almost gave me a heart attack.”   
  
“Sorry,” Anthea says, mischief sparkling in the smile she flashes at Molly. “Sherlock stopped by yesterday; what did he want?”   
  
“Eyes,” Molly says. “He wasn't picky about what age or color, but he wanted a whole jar of them.”   
  
Anthea makes a moue of distaste. “Right then.” She texts a bit, then pauses. “Do you ever ask  _why_  he wants these things?”   
  
Molly shrugs. “Sometimes. Usually it has to do with a case he's working. Sometimes he's just curious. And every so often, I wish I hadn't asked.” She laughs at the horrified look on Anthea's face. “Oh, it's all in the spirit of scientific inquiry, I assure you. It's just. Have you ever met Sherlock?”   
  
“...once or twice.” Anthea replies.   
  
“Well you know what he's like, then. Strange, but there's method in his madness.”   
  
“His brother's the same way, you know,” Anthea says idly, her attention on her mobile again.   
  
“Sherlock has a brother?” Molly asks, shocked.   
  
Anthea bites her lip. “Yes, but you didn't hear that from me,” she says quickly. “Forget I said anything.”   
  
“Word of honor,” Molly promises, smiling. “I know all of our conversations never happened.” A thought occurs to her. “Oh. Did... did your boss put me in for a raise?”   
  
“Might've done.” Anthea smiles and winks at her. “Have a good afternoon, Doctor Hooper.”   
  
***   
  
Things continues on like that for the next several weeks. Sherlock will show up, ask for something outrageous, and sometime within the next day or two, Anthea will stop by and ask what he's up to.    
  
At first, Molly feels guilty, but no worse than she does about the favors she does for Sherlock. Eventually, she decides that it evens out. For all the notice he takes of her, it serves him right that she's informing on him to someone in the government.   
  
Of course, she knows both sides are using her, she's not stupid. But Sherlock is brilliant and terrifically fit, and Molly can't quite give up that little sliver of hope that one day his interest in her will be genuine, not just a sham.   
  
And every time he lets her down, sweeping out in a dramatic flourish of his coat, she knows she'll see Anthea and get a bit of her own back.   
  
***   
  
Anthea brings her a coffee the next time she pops by. “Ooh, thank you,” Molly says, taking a sip. “How did you know this was my favorite?”   
  
Anthea shrugs, texting as usual. “Lucky guess. What did he want today?”   
  
“To beat a corpse with a riding crop,” Molly says bitterly. “And then he insulted my lipstick, so I took it off, then he said he didn't like me without. Exasperating man.”   
  
Anthea blinks up at her. “You're wasting your time on him,” she comments.   
  
Molly feels her shoulders slump. “I know. But have you seen his eyes?”   
  
“To hell with his eyes,” Anthea says. “Clearly he isn’t using them.” And, before Molly can formulate a response to that, Anthea changes the topic. “A riding crop? What for?”   
  
“Postmortem bruise patterns,” Molly answers.   
  
“Fair enough. Thanks, Molly.” And Anthea's off again.   
  
***   
  
Molly gives up and buys a cat. She's resigning herself to being a mad old cat lady.   
  
***   
  
Sherlock urgently needs to inspect an elderly woman's toenails.   
  
Molly doesn't ask, just rolls her eyes and points to the right drawer. “Don't forget gloves,” she instructs sternly, and he gives her a scathing look.   
  
“Obviously,” he says, pulling a pair from his pocket.   
  
She could just kill him, some nights. She says as much to Anthea the next day.   
  
“I completely sympathize, I assure you,” Anthea says. “But it would make my job both easier and infinitely more difficult if you did, so please don't.”   
  
Molly laughs at her. “I'll try,” she says.   
  
***   
  
Sherlock asks for a head. A whole head.   
  
“Why?” Anthea asks, handing Molly another coffee. It's becoming a regular habit, Anthea showing up just when she needs a pick-me-up. It's starting to be one of the highlights of the work week, a pleasant break from from the extremes of motionless bodies and Sherlock's moods.   
  
“Saliva coagulation.”   
  
“Ah.” Anthea texts this information to her boss.   
  
“Can I get your opinion on something?” Molly blurts, before she even knows what she's doing.   
  
Anthea looks up from her mobile. “Of course.”   
  
“Does my hair look all right like this? I mean, honestly?”   
  
Anthea pushes a few more keys and then snaps her mobile closed, tucking it away in her purse. She looks at Molly, really  _looks_  for a minute. She nods decisively. “Absolutely,” she says. “Why?”   
  
“Sherlock said it looked nice but I didn't know if it was because he wanted something from me or if...” Molly trails off helplessly.   
  
Anthea frowns. “One of these days someone is going to come along and sweep you off your feet,” she says. “Just don't expect a madman like Sherlock to do it.”   
  
***   
  
Anthea's right. Jim is mad in a completely new way. Molly just doesn't find out for a while.   
  
***   
  
_Are you all right?_  comes an anonymous text.  _You're not at work._   
  
_Jim? If that's you, don't ever contact me again. I know who you are now._  It took two weeks for anyone to tell her, of course. And now she's on a leave of absence with a police patrol circling her block. It's not enough for her to feel safe, though. If anyone can slip past policemen, it's Jim.  _James,_ she corrects herself.  _James Moriarty. Not Jim. 'Jim from IT' never really existed._   
  
_It's Anthea, silly._  comes the reply.    
  
Oh. That's all right, then. Molly doesn't even care that she never gave Anthea her number.  _Managing,_  she types back.   
  
_I asked my boss to post a couple of extra men to watch you,_  Anthea texts.  _You won't notice them, but you'll be as safe as houses, I promise._   
  
Molly doesn't know how to handle that. A month ago, the lack of privacy would have scared her silly. Now, she's just grateful.  _Thank you,_  she types.   
  
_I'm so sorry,_  Anthea texts.  _Let me know if there's anything else I can do._   
  
Molly just stares at her phone and tries not to cry. Everyone keeps saying that, and it just makes things  _worse._   
  
***   
  
On Molly's first evening back at Bart's, everyone gives her a wide berth, with worried stares and silence following in her wake. She pretends it's because she got her hair chopped off. It's short and flippy and not at all mouselike.   
  
She squares her shoulders and ignores the whispers.   
  
Then she stops short when she gets to the mortuary. “Oh. Sherlock.”    
  
She's tongue-tied again, but for different reasons than usual. Mostly anger and six kinds of shock. “You look awful,” she blurts. And he does, one half of his face covered in still-healing scrapes and bruises. From the careful way he favors his side, he's got fractured ribs, as well.   
  
“Good to see you too, Molly. I need teeth.”   
  
“Good for you. Get them yourself.” She turns to get her clipboard off its hook on the wall and goes about her business as if he isn't even there.   
  
“Did you get a haircut?” he ventures after a minute.   
  
There is a derisive snort from the doorway. Molly starts, then relaxes as she recognizes Anthea.   
  
“Hullo, Sherlock,” Anthea drawls, sounding bored as she types on her mobile, “ I'm supposed to tell you, Doctor Watson just woke up.”   
  
Sherlock bolts for the exit.   
  
Anthea puts away her mobile. “That was a lie. Doctor Watson woke up an hour ago. No one wanted to tell Sherlock because he's been driving the hospital staff mad.” She winks at Molly. “He'd have found out anyway; I just figured you'd rather he were gone.”   
  
Molly gives her a grateful smile. “Absolutely. That was brilliant of you, thanks.”   
  
“Don't mention it.” Anthea brushes off her gratitude with a wave of her hand. “Seriously, don't – my boss will have my head. He promised the nurses twenty-four hours of peace, and I'm afraid it's only been eighteen.”   
  
“Oh.”   
  
“Speaking of my employer... could you look up the reports on the remains recovered from the pool explosion? He wants a copy, and official channels are terribly slow...” Anthea says.   
  
Ah. Of course Anthea's not just here to rescue Molly from Sherlock's casual abuse. “Sure,” Molly says, feeling her shoulders droop. “Just one minute.” She prints two copies – one for Sherlock, because he will undoubtedly ask – and hands a set to Anthea without looking at the pages herself. She doesn't want to know.   
  
“Thanks, Molly, you're a dear,” Anthea says, tucking the printouts into her purse. “And your haircut is fantastic, really it is.” She steps into Molly's space and gives her a quick hug. “Just send me a text if you need anything, all right? Even if it's just to shoo Sherlock away.”   
  
Molly jerks a quick nod, and Anthea's gone before she can think of any response.   
  
***   
***   
  
Molly has a whole weekend off. She spends all of Saturday knocking about her flat, driving Toby to irritation with her fussing and cleaning. Eventually, she decides she's being silly. She can't spend the rest of her life going from work to home and back, afraid of the world.   
  
So she throws on a blouse and a nice skirt, puts on some lipstick and mascara, and goes out to a pub around the corner. She feels daring and reckless, heart tripping in her chest as she walks down the block alone.   
  
It takes her an hour to feel utterly ridiculous. A couple of men have approached her, but she's nervous and one man made a crack about her job that left her silent and self-conscious until he left.    
  
She's nursing a third glass of white wine when someone takes the seat next to her. She doesn't look over; she's done trying for the night and all she wants to do is finish her wine in peace and catch a cab back home.   
  
But then a feminine hand reaches over, takes her glass of wine, and drains the rest of it in one go. “Hell of a week,” a familiar voice says with emphasis.   
  
“Anthea?” Molly says in surprise. “What are you doing here?”   
  
“Told my boss to give me the night off, Korean elections be damned,” Anthea says, eyes dancing. She signals the barkeep to bring another round.   
  
“But...here?”   
  
“Not a bad place,” Anthea says, looking around. “And I wanted to see you. That all right?”   
  
Molly nods, thinking of how nice it was not to be in this place alone. If she'd had any friends in the area she'd have rung them up before going out, but everyone she knows is either married or pregnant or both, and that's just too discouraging to even think about. “If I asked how you knew I was here, the answer would probably scare the pants off me, right?” she giggles nervously.   
  
Anthea smiles kindly at her. “Probably.” Their drinks arrive, and Anthea snares hers in a casually graceful gesture that Molly could never manage on her own without breaking the glass somehow. She grips her own drink more carefully and takes a long swallow.   
  
Some man comes over, making a beeline for Anthea of course, who's all fitted suit and long legs and perfect hair as usual. Molly presses her lips together when he angles himself between them. She doesn't hear what he says, but she hears Anthea laugh.   
  
It's not a kind laugh, actually. “Not interested,” Anthea says, clear and cutting over the din of the room. “I'm here with a friend. But thanks anyway.”   
  
He recovers badly, and stalks off with his neck flushed.   
  
“A friend?” Molly asks, feeling warm and giddy and possibly a little tipsy. The man hadn't been half bad; she probably wouldn't have turned him down if he'd spared her a glance.   
  
Anthea gives her a long look. “Yes, you. Don't start that.” She takes another long swallow of wine and then spins the stem between her fingertips. “I hate pubs,” she says, so quietly that Molly almost misses it. Her gaze flicks up to meet Molly's, and there's something else in her eyes that makes Molly's breath catch. “Can I take you home?”   
  
Molly bites her lip. She doesn't know what's happening. She thinks she might have an idea, but she's probably wrong, isn't she? She looks around the pub. There's a handful of men looking their way, mostly at Anthea. Some of them are quite nice, tall and handsome with high-end suits and their flashy watches and cuff links catching the light.   
  
_They wouldn't look twice at me,_  Molly thinks.  _They're only looking at her. And she's here for me._  The thought sets up a warm flutter in the pit of her stomach, a stronger cousin to the reckless impulse that had her coming here in the first place.   
  
“All right,” she says, her voice squeaking a bit at the end. “Yes.” Anthea smiles, slow and delighted, and pays their tab with one hand on Molly's knee.   
  
***   
  
The next morning, she feels as if she's been beaten with a wine bottle rather than drunk half it on an empty stomach. She stretches out carefully, arching her back until it cracks and curling her toes. Toby jumps up on the bed, nudging her face insistently with his head. She brings up a hand to pet him and freezes, halfway through the motion, remembering. She blushes furiously, sitting up so quickly that Toby spooks and darts out the room.   
  
She's alone in her bed, which is a small mercy. And on the night stand there's a note, in very a very distinctive, clear cursive. “Lovely night. Thanks. -A”   
  
Molly stares at it blankly for several minutes, alternately fighting the hazy bits of memory and replaying the details.   
  
Then she sighs, sets the note aside, and goes to take a shower.   
  
***   
  
The next day, Sherlock comes back for the teeth. “Your co-workers are  _so_  uncooperative,” he says with an aggrieved sigh. “You'd think I were asking for explosives rather than body parts no longer in use by their original owners.”   
  
Molly rolls her eyes and hands him a tray of instruments. “Fine, but you're still harvesting them yourself. I have an actual job to do.”   
  
Sherlock pouts, but sets to work efficiently on one of the transients found dead of hypothermia.   
  
After a minute of nearly companionable quiet, he comments, “New boyfriend already.” It's not quite a question.   
  
Molly almost drops the bone saw. She turns it off, sets it down, and pushes up her face shield. “Not that it's any of your business, but no. I don't have a new boyfriend, thanks.”   
  
“You're wearing more make-up,” he observes, “and more fashionable shoes, though they're two seasons out of date. And you only get this unhelpful when someone else's romantic involvement in your life lowers your need for my validation.”   
  
She gapes at him for a moment, then shuts her mouth, drops her face shield, and sets about opening up Mrs. Martin's chest cavity. She can pretend it's Sherlock's chest cavity.   
  
Before he leaves, she goes to her shelf on the wall and retrieves the reports on the bombing remains. She shoves them at him. “It's  _not_  a new boyfriend,” she mutters, not meeting his gaze. “And you're an asshole. Don't come back here until you learn some manners.”   
  
She checks her appearance every half hour after he leaves, just in case, feeling silly every time.   
  
But still.   
  
***   
  
There is a really posh black car out back when Molly leaves, almost blocking the employee exit. It has government plates, and the rear window rolls down to reveal Anthea.   
  
“Oh,” Molly says, touching her hair. “Hi, didn't think I'd see you today.”   
  
“Sherlock turned up, didn't he? So I have an excuse. Want a lift home?”   
  
Molly thinks about the bus. It doesn't take that long to decide.   
  
***   
  
Anthea directs the driver to Molly's flat and spends the next five minutes texting. Molly shifts uncomfortably, twisting her hands in her lap.   
  
“Came back for the teeth, did he?” Anthea asks without looking up.   
  
“Er, yes,” Molly stammers. “I made him get them himself.” She titters a little, one hand flying to cover her mouth. “He wasn't pleased.”   
  
“Good for you,” Anthea says approvingly to her mobile. Then after another minute, she snaps it closed and tucks it in her purse. “Done. Now.” And she reaches over to take one of Molly's hands, kissing their entangled knuckles. “How was the rest of your day?”   
  
“Um.” Molly thinks frantically over her shift, wondering what she can say about the business of cutting open corpses to find the broken parts inside. She finds it fascinating, but Anthea is pressing little bites to the pads of Molly's fingertips, looking cool and inquisitive and definitely not the type of girl to listen to talk of stomach contents. “Fine?”   
  
Anthea laughs. “Fair enough.” She pulls their arms across her body, sliding her free hand into Molly's hair and tilting her face just so for a sweet, chaste kiss.   
  
Molly pulls away, just a little. “I haven't. Um. I don't usually.”   
  
“Oh, you  _were_  drunk, weren't you,” Anthea replies. “You said all that a dozen times the other night. And then you made me scream so loudly the neighbors banged on the ceiling.” She kisses Molly again, a teasing brush of her lips.   
  
Molly flushes. She does remember that – she didn't until she ran into that same neighbor on her way to work, but she remembers it now. She also remembers counting the marks on her body in the shower. Most of them still ache, but pleasantly so. Especially the one on her inner thigh. She wonders if Anthea will give her a matching one on the other side.   
  
“Only if you ask really nicely,” Anthea says, and then kisses Molly properly so that she's too busy to be embarrassed at saying that last bit aloud.   
  
***   
  
When they get to her flat, Molly disentangles herself reluctantly from Anthea's arms and they clumsily tumble out of the car, laughing. Anthea taps the front window and the driver rolls it down. “Don't tell  _him_  where you dropped me off, or I'll let him know you put cheap gas in the tank and pocket the difference,” she says. The driver gives her a two-finger salute, but he nods agreeably and his eyes are smiling.   
  
When they get inside, Toby looks up from the couch and Anthea immediately drops her purse to scoop him up, scratching his cheeks. “Oh, who's a handsome boy?” she coos. Molly grins at the sight, something expanding in her ribs as she sheds her coat and shoes at the door.   
  
“Did you... did you want coffee?” she asks, fidgety. Anthea bounces Toby in her arms a little before dropping him back onto his cushion.   
  
“No,” she replies, closing the distance. “I would like to go to your bedroom, kiss you senseless until we both drop off to sleep, then wake you up in the most pleasant way possible. Sound all right?”   
  
Molly drops her gaze, watching Anthea kick off her expensive shoes. They're almost the same height, she realizes when she looks back up. “Yeah, I think so.”   
  
They mix up the last two steps of the plan, but that's fine.   
  
***   
***   
  
“Definitely a new boyfriend. That's a new scarf and new perfume,” Sherlock says two months later, startling Molly from her inspection of an odd slide. She hadn't expected him to visit during her shifts any more; she's been putting up with the day shift staff complaining about him with smug humor.   
  
“That's not an apology,” she says, regaining her equilibrium. “And it's not a new boyfriend.” It's also not her scarf or perfume; they're both Anthea's.   
  
He narrows his eyes at her. “You didn't specify an apology,” he points out. “And you're still hiding something.”   
  
She turns back to her microscope, listening to him seethe out of his nostrils for twenty seconds. “Was there something you wanted?” she asks idly.   
  
“I need to know if Trish Spencer had any unusual parasites in her digestive tract.” He pauses. “Please.”   
  
“You're in luck, I'm looking at one now. Want to help me identify it? I was about to take a photo for comparison.” She does, and puts it up on the monitor.   
  
He looks as if she's just handed him a pony. Or whatever a five-year-old Sherlock would find delightful; she doesn't care to consider it for long. “Molly, you're a wonder!”   
  
“What is it?” she asks, but he's already halfway out the door, so she starts up the match program.   
  
Ten seconds later, he wheels back in, expression wilder than she's ever seen. “You're seeing my brother's secretary!” he shouts, pointing at her in accusation.   
  
“What?” she says, jaw dropping open. “No? What??”   
  
He looks over his shoulder at the door, as if Anthea is about to come through the door any minute. “I have to leave,” he says, forcing his voice even, “to arrest a serial rapist before he leaves the country again. But when I come back, you are going to tell me absolutely everything.”    
  
And then he's gone again, leaving Molly to gape in his wake.   
  
***   
  
Anthea shows up three hours later, bringing coffee right on schedule.   
  
“Sherlock stopped by to find out about a parasite in a victim's GI tract,” Molly says, taking a grateful sip of the coffee. “And to tell me that your employer is apparently his brother.”   
  
Anthea's smile drops like a stone. “I was wondering where my scarf went,” she says uselessly. “It looks nice on you.”   
  
“Were you going to tell me?” Molly asks. “You said he worked for the government.”   
  
Anthea sighs. “He does. He's  _also_  Sherlock's brother. He can be both.”   
  
“Does she even know your real name?” Sherlock's haughty voice asks from the doorway. When Molly turns to look at him, she notices that his hair is disheveled and he's sporting what is going to be an astonishing black eye.   
  
At this, Molly spins back round to look at her - girlfriend? She's still not sure exactly what she and Anthea are, but it had been  _working,_  dammit. “Have I been calling you the wrong name?”   
  
Anthea's isn't looking at her, but at Sherlock. “Things not going well with John, Sherlock? Isn't it enough that your own romantic life is a shambles, you have to come ruin ours?”   
  
He shoots back with, “Hasn't Mycroft given you orders of non-interference in my life? Or is this just your way of cementing the loyalty of a source of intelligence?”   
  
Anthea opens her mouth to retort, but Molly cuts in, fed up with them both. “Both of you get the hell out of my lab!!” Molly shouts. “I don't care what games you're playing, or who you're playing for, I am not a part of it starting this instant, do you hear me?” She can feel tears leaking in hot trails down her cheeks, but she can't be bothered to care.   
  
“Molly...” Anthea says, her voice soft and beseeching.   
  
“Out,” Molly repeats, pointing at the door with her jaw set.   
  
When they're gone, she goes to the ladies' and cries for twenty minutes.   
  
***   
  
The black car is waiting for her when she leaves the next day. She studiously ignores it as much as she can while navigating around it.   
  
She hears the window roll down, and a masculine throat clearing. “Doctor Hooper, is it?” a familiar voice calls out. Molly stops in her tracks when she places it and pivots to face the speaker. He's a slender man – not nearly so angular as Sherlock, but narrow nonetheless – in an impeccably-fitted navy suit. He's precisely as bland as he ought to be, if he's really the kind of man Anthea has often implied he is.   
  
“Mr. Holmes,” she says with as much dignity as she can muster, “I'm afraid I will have to terminate our agreement.” And she turns away again, angling her steps to cut across the parking lot towards the bus stop. The car paces her for a bit, but she keeps her gaze straight ahead and her shoulders square until he gets the message.   
  
“Come now,” he says in an all-too-reasonable voice. “I'm sure you realize that's not why I'm here.” She keeps walking, and the car speeds up and cuts her off. Mycroft opens the door. “Please get in,” he says, not unkindly. Still, she eyes the open door dubiously and he tuts at her. “Whatever impression you may have gotten through my assistant's secrecy and my brother's lamentable behavior, I'm not doing to do anything distasteful to you.”   
  
Molly gets in, but she stares resolutely at the window instead of facing him. “I have nothing to say to you. Any of you people. You're all mad, and I don't want any part of it any more.” She notes with some pride that she manages to keep her voice level.   
  
“You don't need to say anything, just listen. I appreciate all that you've done to keep me appraised of my brother's...  _hobbies_ , but I think you are correct that our arrangement is concluded. I already have another source lined up. However, after this evening's events, I find that my usually-efficient assistant has been rendered completely useless. This situation is intolerable.” At Molly's outraged stare, he gives a sliver of a smile. “Of course I am motivated by self-interest; to pretend otherwise would be disingenuous of me. As I am being completely honest, let me correct a few assumptions you seem to have made:   
  
“One, my assistant is, at all times, under orders to use one of several false identities, to make it more difficult for my brother or any of my other... opponents, to interfere with either my business or her personal life. She has seen other people under different names, but has never been so attached to any of them that the necessary deception was exposed.   
  
“Two, she does care for you, quite deeply. I don't pretend to understand it, but you are the girl for her. Should you choose to resume your relationship, I will let her know that she may reveal whatever personal information about herself she chooses to you, provided you do not pass on any of it to any third parties.”   
  
“How...” Molly cuts in. “How do you know that...?” Her voice fails her at his smile. It's probably as kind as he ever gets, but it's still frightening.   
  
“The last time I saw her like this, her mother died.” He purses his lips ruefully. “And it was during a Parliamentary scandal, too. Ah, well, there are always unforeseen factors...”   
  
Molly grits her teeth. “Any other assumptions you want to correct?” she says. “Because I'm almost home.”   
  
“No, you're not. That's the last one: I'm taking you to my assistant's flat, not yours.”   
  
All of the air rushes out of her lungs. A glance out the window proves him right; she's nowhere near her own neighborhood. “You can't force me to reconcile with her.”   
  
“Just knock on her door. At least, you can return her scarf and arrange for her to pick up whatever odds and ends she left at your place,” he points out. The car parks and the driver opens Molly's door. “She's apartment 6-A,” he says. “I'll wait here in case you need a ride home.”   
  
With nothing for it but to do as he suggests, Molly walks up and rings the bell.   
  
“Who is it?” a wary voice answers through the crackly speaker.    
  
Molly almost loses her nerve, but a glance over her shoulder shows Mycroft's impassive face, watching. “It's... it's me. Molly.”   
  
There is an interminable silence. Then the buzzer sounds.   
  
***   
  
6-A is on the third floor. At each landing, Molly almost turns around and leaves, but Anthea...  _not-Anthea,_  whoever, is waiting and no matter how many cruel, mad people keep ruining her life, Molly refuses to become one of them.   
  
The girl who answers the door is a stranger. Her hair is pulled back, she's wearing an oversized blue jumper and leggings, and she isn't wearing any makeup. Even when Anthea woke up in the mornings, she always seemed so put together somehow. This girl is a wreck, and Molly feels a pang of sympathy.   
  
“Anthea?” Molly asks, stunned.   
  
“No,” the girl says, blinking away tears. “That's not my name. Do you want to know my real name?”   
  
Molly smiles at her. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “I think that's a start.”   
  


  
\- END -


	2. Updates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly updates her blog. Follow-up to 'Artifice.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done quick for a Sherlock BBC [kinkmeme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/) [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2727.html?thread=6630823#t6630823): "Molly/Anthea. Go go go."
> 
> ..technically, I wrote "Artifice" first in response, chickened out of posting it there, then wrote this real fast afterwards and posted it.
> 
> No beta, no britpick, apologies if there are Issues.

Molly stares at her computer screen, completely at a loss. It's been  _months_  since she updated, and everything's changed since. She doesn't know where to start.  
  
 _Never mind about Jim,_  she types.  _He turned out to be a criminal genius who was just using me to get at that other man I fancied. He's disappeared and Sherlock's hot on his trail, and they can both hang, because I've found someone new._  
  
 _And I'm over the moon._  She pauses, biting her lip. What else can she say?  
  
 _She's lovely. She makes me feel amazing. She tells me that I'm beautiful, and isn't horrified by my job, and she's just stunning. Model-pretty, you know?_  
  
 _I can't say who she is, she works for someone Important. Whenever there's a royal scandal that needs handling, her boss runs her ragged and she smokes exactly one and a half cigarettes out my bathroom window. I don't mind. She puts up with my watching Glee and that I have to wash my hair three times to get charred-corpse smell out of it._  
  
 _Sometimes I feel like a Kept Woman. She buys me really pretty things, just because, and I never know what to get her in exchange. But then she says that she buys them because she likes seeing me smile. Like the really amazing blue suede platforms with red soles. I know they're really really expensive so I don't know where to wear them but then she tells me to wear them and my lab coat and nothing else and when I do she looks at me like *I'm* the present._   
  
_I think I'm starting to adjust to that, feeling special because she loves me, but it's taken a while for it to sink in._  
  
 _Also, the sex is incredible._  
  
 _Sometimes she doesn't kiss me on the mouth because she wants to leave smudges of lipstick on other parts of my body. She once came to my work, dragged me to a supply closet, and did just that, putting my clothes and hair back in place when she was done so that I had to walk around for the rest of the night with sticky-slick patches of red catching against the cloth of my blouse. I'm shivering, just remembering it._  
  
 _We went to a restaurant last night, some place that does tricky things with foam and flavour pearls and the like, because she knows I'm interested in experimental food science. I went on about how everything was made, and she told me how some of the chemicals are regulated because terrorists use them for bombs or aerosolised poisons, and we got a lot of strange looks from the couple at the next table over. It was actually pretty funny, I don't think I've ever giggled that much in a long time._  
  
 _When we got home, she handed me a box - a gift again! I still can't get over it! - and I opened it and there was this really pretty glass... thing. It could have been a sculpture, it's so pretty, with spiralling colours inside and the graceful curve of it, but it's not. It's, um. A toy. She said she wanted to use it on me and see if she could make me. Well. I can't repeat the rest of it, but she could and she did, and the neighbours are probably upset about all the noise._  
  
 _I don't mean for it to sound like all we do is shag. We actually don't all that often, since we're on different schedules and she's out of the country at least a week out of every other month._  
  
 _We have a game we play, every time she's out of town. Before she leaves, she goes up to my stack of old medical journals, picks one out at random, and takes it with her to read on her trip. She calls up every day, and talks to me about the articles. At first, I had to do a lot of explaining, but she's catching on. She even likes when I talk about work, and that's new for me._  
  
 _To be perfectly honest, she says she loves that about me. My job, I mean. That I'm good at it and enjoy it and honestly when she starts in about how my science-y ways turn her on, it's always a little confusing. I'm used to people teasing me about it, and here she loves me for it! I've even learned not to wear my reading glasses in bed around her, especially if I have an early shift the next day._  
  
 _That's the hardest part to get used to, actually. She loves me, all of the things about me that I thought were odd. She loves that I get excited about science, she loves getting me flustered in public because she says my smile and my blush are *cute*, she loves that I watch Jane Austen films with Toby on my lap and a box of tissues handy._  
  
 _And I love her back, I really really do._  
  
Molly stares at the screen and deletes all of it after  _And I'm over the moon._  That says it all, really.  
  
 _And if you're still reading this, “Jim,” you can stop right now. Because I'm happy, really happy, despite you and Sherlock and your stupid games._  
  
Molly hits 'post' and goes to bed, where her girlfriend is probably reading an Ian Fleming novel while waiting up for her.

 

  
  
\- END -


End file.
